Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 6

Aragorn glanced towards his sleeping wife. She had pulled the covers up leaving only her shoulders visible, pale, creamy and smooth, but for the light mark under her collarbone where Aragorn had kissed her last night. He looked out of the window towards the city, pale and grey under the still lightening dawn sky. He had risen early and as he felt the faint breeze fall on his face, he realised he was unlikely to return to sleep. Pulling on a robe, he walked into the terrace outside his room and gazed into the gardens below. The dawn mist was beginning to clear, revealing the layers of the city slowly. He suddenly found himself remembering Boromir speaking to him of the city, his voice filled with love and longing. His thoughts wandering to Faramir, to the sight of the younger man the evening before, his lean face animated, a far sight from the usually tense and drawn disposition he presented in council meetings.

Although that perhaps was justified, he mused, as he thought of the day ahead. There was to be another council meeting today, thankfully the last for a few days for they would not reconvene for another week yet, and he hoped to get much of his work done in that time. Today’s meeting would be just as acrimonious as the previous ones, and Faramir was unlikely to derive any enjoyment from this one either, as they would discuss the Ithilien restoration as well today. Much as he was loath to admit, it seemed clear that his councillors were unlikely to go by anything young Faramir had to say on the matter. The younger man had on previous occasions presented records, and made many points and suggestions all of which had been shot down with thinly veiled contempt. Aragorn had studied the papers himself and found much substance in all that Faramir had said.

He was not unaware of the tensions that seemed to exits between the Steward and his son or even how they seemed oft times to spill over into his council meetings or how they reflected in the attitude of the other councillors towards Faramir.

He had been intending to ride into Ithilien himself and study the lay of the land. He wondered if Faramir should accompany him. Perhaps, he should, he decided. He would like to spend more time with Faramir, and perhaps a journey together would help the younger man overcome his shyness. Faramir’s brooding nature seemed at odds with everyone else’s optimism.

But seeing Faramir smiling at the dinner last night had in some way reassured Aragorn that the other man had a lighter side to his nature as well, and would be a good friend to have. The war had affected everyone, and Faramir was among those more affected than others, having fought long under the influence of the black breath in Ithilien. He would clearly need to be drawn out of whatever misery he felt, and Aragorn felt some responsibility for that. Denethor’s own taciturn nature would clearly not help, and Andreth while a cheerful and healthy lad was still too young to understand.

As he drew away from the window and began to ready himself for the day, he found his thoughts lingering on Faramir, of the lean frame, and the smiling face. The brothers were unalike, and yet perhaps Faramir was not as much the lesser one as others sought to make him out to be. Perhaps he should do something about the young man. He had assured Boromir that he would care for his loved ones, and Boromir’s memories were still fresh enough in his heart to cause an ache whenever he thought of what they had shared.

He mentioned his plan of visiting Ithilien to Denethor later that day, as they ate a small meal after the council meeting. The council had been as unfruitful as he had expected, and the only reason there were no prolonged debates was that Faramir had volunteered no suggestions. He had listened quietly, his countenance clearly uncomfortable at some of the more outrageous points but said nothing, and the meeting had again ended with no decision taken on Ithilien, as usual.

Aragorn also mooted his idea of getting Faramir to accompany him. The Steward frowned as he listened but finally nodded.

“He may be of some help to you, he has been there long enough,” he agreed, almost reluctantly. Aragorn grimaced a little as he heard the Steward’s words and the near contempt of his tone, but said nothing.

“I’ll send him a message asking him to see me,” he said instead.

“He is probably in the archives,” Denethor told him.

Faramir was still in the archives, working on the Haradric treaties, when the messenger from the king’s office found him later. He had left some notes with his father after the council meeting and then gone to the archives immediately. He had ended up spending quite a while fretting over the morning council at first. He knew now for sure that any suggestion he made would be disregarded, particularly when it came to Ithilien. None of the other lords cared greatly for the restoration work, seeing the land as no more than wild, overgrown forest that no longer held any strategic importance. None of them cared as he did for the history of the land, or the traditions that had once been followed there. He had once worked on detailed restoration plans but had over time realised that he should say little on the matter at least for now. And that morning, despite the constant baits that some of the councillors seemed to deliberately throw in his way, he had stayed silent, not even objecting when one of them had obliquely suggested that the monies intended for the restoration would probably be used to restore the fortunes of some who were familiar with the land. He was however glad that there were to be no more councils for a week at least.

He blinked now as he received the message, and bit his lip in worry, wondering what could be so urgent. He gathered together his papers, and rose, brushing down his clothes nervously. As he followed the messenger swiftly, he tried to recollect if he might have done anything in the council that may have angered the king. Or had he perhaps done something during the dinner the previous night. Yet, the king had seemed pleased while speaking to him.

He continued worrying his lip, as he entered the king’s study, suddenly feeling even more nervous as he realised that his father was there too. He wondered if they had called him for the notes he had left on his father’s table the previous night. He had not spoken to his father at the dinner for the older man had seemed busy in conversation with Lady Idril from Lossarnach, or he would have explained what he had left. There had not been much, but he had found some interesting sidenotes on Haradric practices on hospitality and had included those.

Elessar and Denethor were seated at the king’s desk when he entered, bent over a large map. They looked up as Faramir entered the room, shuffling in worriedly.

“Faramir,” Denethor said, his voice brisk with irritation.

“Sire,” Faramir murmured softly, “Sir,” he mumbled to his father, wondering why he was asked to meet them together.

Elessar nodded smilingly at him but it did little to lessen the anxiety that clutched at Faramir’s heart.

“I – I have brought some notes for the treaties,” he stuttered hurriedly, wondering if it was his delays on that which had caused them to summon him.

“Have you anything useful for us?” Denethor interrupted coldly, “Perhaps they like to eat on plates that are painted a particular colour?” he demanded his voice still coloured with annoyance.

Faramir coloured a little. His notes had mentioned that a normal Haradric practise was to partake of a light meal before entering a discussion, usually consisting of herbal tea, crisp thin breads and anything sweet to taste, to assure the visitor that he was welcomed. He had added a few more such anecdotes too including one that a good host would always invite his guest to visit his gardens, for in the arid lands of the south, gardens were coveted. He had thought these could be of help, for they had interested him greatly. Some of these mores had interesting histories.

“Some of those could be of use, my lord Steward,” the king said in a soothing tone, “It would not do well to offend a prince of another realm by indicating to him that he is an unwelcome guest.”

Denethor shook his head gruffly, but said nothing.

“I shall not detain you for long, your father tells me you are still at work on the treaties,” the king said reassuringly.

Faramir nodded silently, unsure of what to say

“I should like to ride to Ithilien in a few days’ time, and I would like you to accompany me,” the king said.

Faramir stared at him surprised.

“Well,” Elessar continued, “Will you be able to accompany me?”

“He will,” Denethor said, “He has little to do here.”

Faramir started at that, before replying, “I – will, my lord,” he mumbled softly.

“Very well,” Elessar replied smiling, “I have charted out the routes I wish to take, so all you will need to do is pack whatever you require for your journey. We shall leave in two days’ time, at daybreak and return in a day or two.”

“If I may leave now then, Aragorn, I shall collect from Faramir all else that he has done on the treaties so far,” Denethor spoke, rising.

He and his father walked back to their house in silence, the only sounds the echoes of their feet on the stone floor.

“You may bring for me what you have done this far,” Denethor said coldly, “And work on the rest of it ere you leave.”

He did as he was bid silently, but not without trepidation. Returning to his chambers, he packed for his journey swiftly, long conditioned to leaving in a hurry with no more than a satchel. Once done, he returned to work well aware that he would now be further delayed for this journey would surely take them some days to return. He slept late and sparingly that night, having liberally applied salves over his back and lower body. The cuts were healing quite rapidly now, and for that little he was glad. The next morning he rose early, ate a hurried meal and worked through the day, stopping briefly only for his meals and later to check on all the departure preparations.

He checked that the horses had been readied at the stables, and met with the troop that was to escort them, and then checked the supplies they were carrying twice over. Elessar and his father too seemed busy for he saw little of the two of them. He slept sparingly that night as well, waking well before the first fingers of dawn swept over the sky.

It was still a little dark when he neared the courtyard, carrying no more than his own satchel, containing some clothes, a blanket, maps and some supplies. Someone stood in the alcove at the edge of the corridor. The king and the queen, he realised, and felt himself flushing as his eyes were drawn towards them. They stood close, melding into each other almost as one, as they shared a long and tender kiss. He slipped silently behind a column and watched as the queen’s slender, pale hands slipped under the king’s tunic, raising it to reveal the hard, browned skin of his side. He felt a strange, almost queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach as the long fingers stroked the king’s side and back, and the king’s hand shifted up from the queen’s waist to her shoulder, slipping her thin robe off her shoulder. Their lips came apart and the queen’s soft gasps though no more than whispers still seemed to resound in his ears, as he saw the king’s mouth slide down from her lips to her jaw, then her throat and collarbone.

A faint trumpet call sounded from the stables, loud enough to recall Faramir to awareness. He blushed furiously as he realised that he had invaded the king’s privacy. He moved back, away from the two as they came apart, but still stayed in each other’s arms. Silently he walked away, out of that hallway and took another passage out to the courtyard. He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked swiftly, suddenly feeling cold. He tried not to guess why the sight of the king and queen’s intimacy left him feeling almost disturbed, and even a little distressed.

The horses stood ready to leave out in the courtyard and there were quite a few people milling around, including his father, Andreth, young Prince Eldarion and some of the councillors who still remained. The king and queen emerged through another doorway. The king was donning his cloak as he walked and a wide smile graced his face as he spoke to the queen. Her long, silken hair hung loose around her shoulders, and while the robes had been straightened, Faramir could see the reddening marks left by the king’s lips on the pale skin above the swell of her breasts. He walked towards the horse selected for him, and fumbled with the saddlebags, as the king brushed away a strand of her from the queen’s face and pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead, before turning to the others.

The king then spoke briefly to his father, their voices too soft for Faramir to glean what they said, but it seemed not to involve him and for that he felt almost grateful. As the king spoke to Prince Eldarion, Faramir looked towards Denethor, who now stood talking to lady Idril and wondered briefly whether he ought to speak to him. It shamed him that just the thought of speaking to his father could now induce such fear, and so he made to move towards him. The Steward glanced at him, gave him a short, curt nod, and returned to his conversation with Lady Idril.

Faramir halted and returning to his horse, climbed on. It was no easy task with his shoulder still weak, but he could manage it alone nevertheless and for that at least he felt grateful. He waited as the king and the escort completed their farewells, his restlessness growing as the early morning chill dampened the air.

They finally left just as dawn broke over the city; he, the king and an escort of seven, making their way slowly down the winding city roads out onto the plains where they broke into a fast canter.

Their journey to Ithilien was quiet. Elessar and the captain of the escort, Ardahil rode at the helm. Ardahil was from the northern rangers and the two were soon deep in conversation over places that Faramir had only ever heard of and knew naught of. He fell back, feeling a little miserable as he watched the king ride ahead of him, his strong straight-backed frame noble as ever. However, he soon found he had other worries to contend with. He had not been riding since he had fallen off his mount at the battle on the Pelennor, and now he found that his weakened shoulder affected his riding ability as well, for his shoulders and back began stiffening shortly after they crossed the Pelennor, the back more so, for although healed by now, the newly acquired scars from his father’s whip still pulled at the skin a little. He tried to assuage it by adjusting his movements as inconspicuously as possible, glad that at least the cuts on his buttocks and thighs had healed by now, but a throbbing ache continued to assail his shoulders and back. They crossed the Anduin north of the city where the river narrowed and entered lands that were wilder, which slowed them down. He was glad when they halted for the noon meal by a small stream, short though their stop was. They stopped just enough to let the horses cool down in the water and for a hurried meal of soft bread and fruits. Faramir discreetly tried to massage his shoulder a little withdrawing away from the others as they sat around the meal. Many in the escort were also from the northern rangers and the king spent much of the meal laughing with them over old incidents.

Faramir’s fingers felt numb from holding the reins and there was little he could do to alleviate the pain in his upper body so he finally washed his face and neck in the cold water of the stream, hoping that would provide some relief. He had some herbs that he could rub over the injured area in his saddlebag but that would take him time to apply, so he decided to wait until they camped for the night, to use those. He was still hurting when they mounted their horses again. He said nothing well aware that the smallest of words would return to Denethor’s ears, and he could not afford to be seen as complaining or weak in front of the king. His injury from the Haradrim dart was many months old now and if he had yet to recover from it, it was his own doing. His father spoke no untruths when he called him a weakling, he thought miserably. Men with worse injuries were hale and hearty again, while he still lingered in pain and fatigue. He found too that he wished desperately that the king should not see him for the weakling he was. It did not occur to him that the black breath combined with the injury had caused in him ailments worse than those faced by most others in the war, for he was more used to finding faults in himself above all others.

They were entering Ithilien, and there had been a time when just that would have raised his spirits considerably. But the afternoon ride was hard on him, and he tried desperately to take his mind off the dull ache that would not lessen no matter how much he shifted in his saddle. Ahead of and behind him, the other riders moved smoothly, laughing and talking softly, enjoying the fresh air of the forest land.

Aragorn was happy. He had been a ranger so long, he had not realised how much the freedom of the outdoors had become a part of his very being. In the days after the war, his kingship duties and his reunion with Arwen had kept him busy, and it was only now as they had all settled into a routine, that he had begun once again to ache for the feel of the crisp outdoor air on his face, the feel of grass on his bare hands and feet. He was glad too that the northern rangers formed most of his escort. While many of the Dunedain had returned to the lands in the Arnor, some among the younger ones had eagerly expressed a desire to remain in Minas Tirith and explore the lands of the south. Spending time like this with them reminded him of a time that had been harder yet just as fruitful and fulfilling. He knew he could never return to such times again but occasions like this transported him back to fonder memories of the old days. Ithilien too was a fair land, its green but wild beauty not unlike that of the northern lands.

He could see now why talking of this land made Faramir’s eyes light up, and his voice nearly crack in his desperation to convince the other councillors of its worth. He frowned as he realised Faramir had fallen back, and recollected guiltily that for most of the ride so far, the younger man had not been by him, nor had he used this opportunity to get to know him better. Of course, he would need him by his side on the morrow once they were well inside Ithilien, but this now would be the best time to speak to him of matters other than duty. As Ardahil continued conversing with the other ranger riding by them, Aragorn dropped back until he was riding abreast with Faramir. The younger man stared at him in surprise. He smiled at him.

“I am glad we rode out today,” Aragorn said cheerfully, “The weather is holding up very well!”

“Yes, sire,” was all Faramir said.

They rode together in silence for a while until Aragorn spoke again.

“We are not far from the shelter where we will spend the night are we?”

“Nay, Sire. We shall reach in another two hours,” Faramir replied. He had checked earlier on where the halts were planned and had been satisfied with the plans. The shelter for that night was large, dry one.

Aragorn glanced towards the younger man as they rode on, again struck by how similar yet how dissimilar he was to Boromir. There were some physical similarities but Faramir’s stature was smaller. He had noticed that in the houses of healing. As he had examined Faramir, he had looked at the thin, bony frame, and recollected Boromir’s contrasting build. The Steward’s elder son had been taller and broader, his body firm and muscled. He tried not to quell the sadness that filled his heart as he thought of Boromir, and tried not to remember their moments together and the intimacy and passion they had shared in their few short months together.

He gripped his reins tightly, willing himself to let go of the memories, and to concentrate instead on what was left to him. He forced himself to get back to his conversation with Faramir.

He knew so little of Faramir, of what he did when he was not working on treaties or papers, of what he liked to read or what moved him. Or even, he wondered suddenly, whether he had a lover? There was no lady he was betrothed to, of that Aragorn was assured, but he was aware that Boromir had had other lovers. Surely Faramir would too. He thought suddenly of the night of the dinner and the hungry look in the old lord’s eyes as he’d leaned over Faramir.

“The dinner with the Khandrim delegate went very well,” he said finally, “I think we can expect the Haradrim visit to pass of fairly well too. I am grateful to have your help on the treaties.”

Faramir look of astonishment was almost comical.

“I was glad to see you at the dinner,” Aragorn continued doggedly, “We do not see as much of you as we would like.”

Faramir struggled wildly for a response to that, berating himself for constantly being tongue-tied in front of the king, but days of worry and overwork coupled with the long ride, and the pain were beginning to take their toll on him. He tugged nervously at the ties of his cloak instead, before finally murmuring a response.

“It was a fine dinner, Sire, and it was most kind of you and the lady queen to invite me. And – and all the guests seemed happy.”

“I am glad,’ Aragorn replied, “For it was a large gathering and I have been unused to those for many years. Not since my younger days in Elrond’s halls have I had to play host for so many. You must of course be used to many such, for I am told the feasts in the citadel were large.”

“Earlier they were, I too have been told, but not for many years now,” Faramir replied quietly, “For the times seemed dark and few were of the heart to celebrate. We would have harvest feasts, and those Boromir would mostly host.”

Aragorn did not miss the slight catch in the younger man’s voice. Faramir continued surprisingly, his voice a little hoarse now.

“He liked the dances and the music in those. There were times when he would dance the entire night and still be ready for duty the next morning. And he danced very well.”

“That I can well imagine,” Aragorn said smiling, for he too had seen Boromir dance in the elven halls and had been much moved by the enthusiasm and grace of the younger man, “He had many a lady in Elrond’s halls desirous of dancing with him.”

“Boromir was well-liked among the women,” Faramir agreed quietly, “All the women would clamour to dance with him, even the matrons for they swore he made them feel young again.”

“And many among the men too I suspect,” Aragorn said lightly, for Boromir had spoken to him of female and male lovers in his past.

Faramir nodded.

“And what of you,” Aragorn continued lightly, “Is there no young lady who has caught your eye?”

“No,” Faramir said quietly. His posture suddenly seemed very upright and his eyes were focussed straight ahead.

“Or a young lad, perhaps?” Aragorn persisted, unsure suddenly how such matters were seen in Gondor.

“No,” Faramir said shortly, his back very rigid, and his voice sounding strained.

Aragorn sighed silently, aware that their conversation had now been affected. Again, here Faramir was different from his brother. Boromir would have been open about his life, keeping no secrets. Talk such as this would have been the subject of an evening meal away from the young hobbits, coupled with an anecdote or two. And yet, he recollected now that as he had watched Faramir writhing under the influence of the fever in the houses of healing, and without thought, aided his flushed body aroused by the influence of the fever and the potions the healers had forced into him, he had seen in the arch of his body and in his soundless words, a passion as unlimited as Boromir’s. It was only now that the tiny little thought that had occurred to him then, made itself felt insistently in his mind, and he wondered what manner of a lover Faramir would make. The eager, aching need in the slight body, when he had wrapped his hands around the hard shaft, and the silent cries that gave way to a very loud, lustful moan contradicted greatly with the sombre, stern outward visage and that very thought caused a fluttering sensation in Aragorn’s lower belly.

He sat up straight too at that, flushing a little as his thoughts manifested themselves more clearly now, leaving him feeling confused.

They spoke no more of these matters now. Instead he asked Faramir of the land they rode through, of the terrain and the soil, and was gladdened that in such at least the younger man spoke freely although still his voice lacked the friendliness and conviviality that Boromir’s would have had.

They reached the shelter while there was still light and after seeing to their horses, began to prepare camp. Some of the soldiers set to making a fire near the shelter, while a few of the others set out to catch some fresh fish from the stream nearby, a little way up from their camp. Aragorn stayed back as did Faramir. The king had learnt much in the last few hours of the journey, all about Ithilien, and little about Faramir.

He watched now as the younger man who was still seeing to his horse, led the animal downstream to wash and brush it down. He continued watching through the trees, appreciating the care that was being lavished on the mount. Once Faramir had finished with the animal, he knelt down and washed his face and neck in the cold water. He then looked around furtively and then removed his tunic and vest, baring himself to the waist. He pulled out some herbs from a small pouch he had placed on a rock nearby and seated himself under cover of a thick bush. Aragorn leaned forward a little, pursing his lips as he watched.

Faramir’s movements had seemed slow and almost stiff as they had set up camp. Now, he rubbed the herbs between his palms, fumbling and dropping them twice, before finally gripping his shoulders and twisting himself as he tried to rub his back and shoulder blades with the herbs. Aragorn rose swiftly, and strode up to the young man, aware now that the stiff demeanour was at least in some part due to physical hurt.

“It is your shoulder, is it not?” he demanded, causing Faramir to start at his sudden approach.

The younger man grimaced unconsciously from the sudden movement and scrambled up. His face flamed and he looked away from Aragorn, before speaking.

“Nay.”

“Your shoulder is as yet healing, is it not?” Aragorn repeated, absently noticing the harsh redness of the large scar left by the dart standing out amongst older, smaller marks and scars on the pale skin of Faramir’s bare torso, “I should have thought of that before making you ride for so long. Where else does it hurt? It must have affected your back as well. Let me see,” he offered.

Faramir however backed away, his expression a mix of shame and fear, “It is naught,” he said insistently, “I am riding after long; that is all. I shall be fine.”

“Faramir,” Aragorn said patiently, and reached out to grasp the younger man’s shoulder. The skin was soft under his fingers for the fleeting moment that Faramir stood there, for the younger man jerked away almost immediately.

“I am fine,” Faramir repeated.

Aragorn bit his lip to refrain from shouting. It was clear to him that Faramir was in pain, for his entire posture was stiff, but the younger man seemed too stubborn to acknowledge it. A cool wind blew in from the river and Faramir shivered, realising suddenly that he had no tunic on. He flushed and wrapped his arms around his naked chest.

Aragorn found himself irrationally irritated by that gesture. There was no call for the younger to act as a blushing maiden, but he held back his temper. Bending, he picked up the younger man’s tunic and vest and handed them to him.

“You may come to me, if you would like my help. I have no salves for such aches but you seem to have the herbs and I can help you massage them. If you would prefer not to have my help, very well, but remember that if the pain worsens you will slow us all down.” It was perhaps a little brutal of him, but he hoped the thought of affecting others would force Faramir to come to him.

He had miscalculated however for Faramir’s eyes suddenly seemed shuttered and distant, as he pulled on the tunic, fingers fumbling with the ties. As Aragorn turned to return to the camp, he heard him say firmly and in a slightly loud voice, “I will not slow the rest of you.”

Faramir returned to the camp with him, leading his horse to the clearing where the other mounts stood, and then returned to sit by the fire. Aragorn said nothing but watched him covertly through the evening. To an unaware eye, Faramir would have betrayed no signs of pain or discomfort as he helped the rangers prepare supper and lay beds in the shelter, although Aragorn could see better, but he said nothing. They spent a quiet night in the shelter. It was large and dry and allowed enough space for a man to sleep comfortably, equipped as they were with bedding and blankets.

Aragorn lay where he could observe Faramir, and as night fell over the land, kept an eye on the dim outline of the younger man that was visible in the starlight from the windows. Faramir seemed to be awake or long, and shifted often, as though seeking a comfortable position to lie in. At times he turned his face towards Aragorn, pale and drawn, eyes closed, but not sleeping, for his breathing remained tensed.

Aragorn found himself tiring soon for the ride had indeed been long, and he soon gave in to sleep aware though that Faramir still lay awake.

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